Chapter 19

Knuckles rapped loudly on the bedroom door as Perry zipped up Della's dress. She buckled the patent leather belt around her waist and stepped into her shoes before gliding across the room and jerking open the door. Perry remained by the bed, gathering the estate paperwork and stuffing it back into the manila envelope, a sly, satisfied smile playing across his lips.

Carter stood on the other side, fist raised to knock again. He frowned at his half-sister. "Father wants to know if you're ready to go back to the funeral home."

"Dressed and ready to go," Della replied cheerfully. At least he'd had the courtesy to knock and not stand at the bottom of the stairs and holler at her as he had been wont to do most of her life.

Carter looked over her shoulder at the tumbled sheets on the bed and his frown deepened. "Have you no shame, Della?"

Della glanced back at Perry and matched his sly smile. "Apparently not," she said breezily. Carter moved aside as Della, followed by Perry, stepped into the hallway.

"Aren't you going to make the bed?"

Della reached back, grabbed the knob, and pulled the door shut. "Nope. It would be a waste of energy in this heat." She winked at Perry.

"You know how grandmother felt about unmade beds."

"I do. I've suffered from the same aversion, but I'm getting over it. Closing the bedroom door helps a lot. Tell me, Carter, how do you feel about unmade beds?"

Carter cleared his throat, unable to muster a reply to her innuendo, his face a dark crimson.

"Good grief, Carter, I took a nap and Perry read some estate documents. Breathe already."

Perry hung back as Carter turned on his heel and headed toward the stairway in a flustered huff. "You left out a few details about our nap. I don't know if I can represent a dishonest client."

She grinned up at him. "I'm not sure Carter is acquainted with those particular details. I didn't want the poor man to faint."

"Do you honestly think your brother has never been kissed?"

"Not in the way I just kissed you."

"Smug little brat, aren't you?"

"Great big happy attorney, aren't you?"

Perry started to say something, thought better of it, and merely shook his head. "You look like such a lady."

Della took his hand in hers and led him toward the stairs. "Would you rather I looked like a lady or acted like a lady?"

At the top of the stairs he very deliberately pulled her into his arms and bent her backward with a flourish. "I like you sweet and salty," he whispered just before his lips met hers.

The stocky dark-haired man who had recently been hugging Della with tangent familiarity stepped out of the reception line and headed toward the corner where Perry had just concluded a delightful conversation with several members of the Ladies Garden Club about the beautiful tulip crop this past spring, and thrust out his hand to the attorney.

"Michael Domenico. First boyfriend."

Nonplussed, Perry accepted the younger man's handshake. "Perry Mason. Last boyfriend."

"You bought her a fur coat," he said with a slight accusatory edge to his voice.

"I believe I did."

The stocky man stared, sizing up the taller man for a few seconds. "I was a fool."

"I won't be."

The man nodded curtly, satisfied with the conversation thus far. "Did you ever meet Grandmother Katherine?"

"No, I never had the honor."

"It would have been an honor, despite anything Della may have told you. She wouldn't have liked you, though."

Perry raised his eyebrows, and caught sight of Della watching them like a hawk over Michael Domenico's shoulder. "Why would you say that? I'm likable enough."

"Likability wouldn't have mattered. You were the reason Della went back to and stayed in California. Grandmother Katherine wanted her here. Ergo, you automatically became her enemy."

"I take it Della's grandmother liked you?"

"She tolerated me because she knew I wasn't going anywhere. I was born here, and I'll be buried here, just like her."

Perry watched as Della threaded her way across the room toward them, a determined look on her face. "I'm not so certain Miranda was correct in her assessment," he said raising his voice slightly when she was still a few feet from them. Michael Domenico turned so that she could pass by him to stand next to Perry. She gripped his arm, the pressure of her fingers a firm reprimand of his observation.

"What assessment is that?" Michael inquired. When he had first entered the funeral parlor and seen her standing between her father and brother in the reception line his heart had literally somersaulted. He'd thought she was completely out of his system, but the sight of her, even lovelier and more poised than he remembered, brought back a flood of feelings shallowly buried at best. She had accepted his hug readily but had turned her cheek to his disappointed lips, her smile surprised and genuinely friendly, but nothing more. Then he had seen the big, dark man across the room, his piercing eyes focused and feasting on Della, and known immediately who he was and why the consoling kiss on the cheek would be the most she would allow him. The quickening of his heartbeat became a disappointed thud as he stood before them, the woman he had foolishly let get away, and the man she looked so perfect standing next to. His huge mistake had been the best thing that ever happened to her – that's what she'd told them in their last conversation – and the final, painful truth was right in front of him.

Della shot Perry a perturbed look as he fought to keep the corners of his mouth from curling up into a smile. "Nothing anyone needs to pay the slightest attention to," she replied briskly. "I trust you properly introduced yourselves and maintained a civil discourse."

"We behaved like perfect gentlemen." Michael assured her.

"The dignity and formality of the surroundings dictated that we reach a mutual understanding without bloodshed," Perry agreed.

"We're going fishing in the morning," Michael added, shoving his hands in his pockets and rocking back slightly on his heels.

"That's all we need, two stinky men in sweltering heat sitting among those genteel garden club ladies. You do realize Grandmother's funeral is at ten and that it's supposed to be the hottest day of the year tomorrow."

"I'm a pretty fair fisherman," Perry said, placing his hand over hers possessively, a movement that immediately caught Michael's attention. "We'll leave at sunrise and have our limit by eight-thirty. There will be plenty of time for a shower."

"Fresh fish might be a nice change from cold fried chicken," she replied, playing along momentarily, then dismissing the entire conversation with a wave of her free hand. "Put on your best lawyer face, Mr. Mason, and come meet the chief of police of this fair town."

"I've already met him," Michael offered by way of declining to accompany them. "Hell of a nice guy. We should invite him to go fishing with us."

Della looked up at Perry with a put-upon expression. "And to think I was actually glad he was back in the country."

Della inhaled tentatively and blew out a puff of smoke almost immediately. Cigarettes didn't taste good lately, and even though she really wanted it, she wasn't sure if she could tolerate it. For several months she had smoked pretty much only when Perry lit one for her, taking a puff or two then leaving it in the ashtray to burn down on its own. Perry was smoking less as well, and when they were alone together, especially at the lake, he hardly smoked at all. He told her he didn't need to smoke when they were together because the primary reasons he smoked – stress and boredom – didn't exist in her presence. Since arriving in this encapsulated town she had seen him smoke only three cigarettes, even though she knew he was feeling incredible stress as he threw himself in front of her to absorb the verbal and emotional blows her family directed at her.

She stared at the glowing tip of the cigarette morosely. This was her first since the night Eve Wyman crossed her threshold, and more than likely her last, for a while at least. It tasted awful, and burned lungs already overheated by the searing heat of the day. It also failed to do for her what she had hoped. She needed it to quell her stress, quiet her nerves, quash her boredom, and all it did was make her more stressed, more nervous, and more than willing to engage in inappropriate behavior to beat back the stifling boredom. She took another tiny puff and immediately coughed out the insignificant amount of smoke before it reached her lungs.

If anyone asked her how she could be bored at this particular time, she would be hard-pressed to explain herself. Perhaps boredom wasn't the proper word for her current state of emotions, she mused. It was more like apathy; a dull I-don't-give-a-damn-get-me-the-hell-out-of-here feeling, especially now that her grandmother was the proverbial six feet under. It made her weary, unfocused, and unable to think logically, and she had a lot to think about. She knew Perry, not a patient man by nature, was struggling mightily to be what she needed, to say what she needed to hear, and likely was one spat away from grabbing her and shaking some sense into her.

Her lips curled upward wistfully. Perry. He'd had good but misplaced intentions in bringing her here, and for all his accomplishments and worldliness, he was out of his element, his innate good sense and take charge demeanor woefully overwhelmed by emerging facts about her childhood, her family, and most shockingly, her womanliness. The secrets that had come to light, the exposure of how deeply damaged she was, mentally and physically, threatened all that they were, all that they hoped to be, and Della saw a fearful helplessness building in him, felt the same helplessness building within herself.

Tears pricked her eyes and she wondered how on earth her body could summon up any more moisture to expel. She felt desiccated from the inside out, her soul crumbling, her heart shriveled like a prune, all her energy directed at keeping it beating despite such constriction. Faced with a conglomeration of events and revelations that challenged sobriety and sanity, she longed to run away and think, to close in on herself and somehow find the strength to ferret out the secrets, the lies, the recriminations, the betrayals – and bury them deeply where they couldn't hurt her anymore. She had done a magnificent job hiding the truth of her upbringing from the world, and specifically from Perry, and the recent exposure of her scabbed over wounds was devastating.

She attempted another puff on the cigarette and managed not to cough, but there was no calming effect whatsoever so she exhaled with a defeated sigh and dropped it. As she savagely ground the cigarette into the grass with the heel of her new shoe, hands landed on her shoulders, kneading gently, consolingly. Della closed her watering eyes and let out a low moan, her own hands reaching up to halt the massage.

"That feels wonderful, darling," she said softly, "but…" her voice trailed off as her hands encountered not Perry's familiar long, strong fingers, but thicker, blunt fingers she had nearly forgotten. "Michael!"

Michael Domenico, dressed in dark slacks and a short-sleeved dress shirt, his striped tie undone, his short dark hair crisp despite the muggy heat of mid-day, dragged a metal shell-backed patio chair, a twin to Della's chair, across the grass and dropped into it. "I'm sorry, Del," he said contritely. "You looked tense with your shoulders hunched up like that. Although I must admit I enjoyed being called 'darling' again."

Della rolled her shoulders as if to rid herself of his touch, and Michael flinched. "I doubt very seriously I ever called you darling. Honey maybe, once or twice. What are you doing out here?"

"I came to ask you the same thing. I know you like sitting under this weeping willow, but it's hotter than Billy-be-damned out here, Del."

She shrugged again. "It's not so bad in the shade." And it really wasn't. What little breeze there was made the thin pale leaves of the willow whisper comfortingly above her and cooled her heated skin.

Michael leaned forward and placed his hand over hers. "It's not so good, either."

"It's better than in there." She jerked her head back toward the house. "I can't play the part of the grieving granddaughter any longer. I'm not that good of an actress. Especially now that the funeral is over and I have to deal with all of her dirty laundry."

Michael slowly withdrew his hand and sat back. "It was a nice funeral. I liked the scriptures you selected." He cleared his throat. "About that dirty laundry…Miranda told me you found out about Tony."

Della was too tired to be angry with him for not telling her about Tony. She tried, but her weariness just wouldn't allow it. "He's Teresa's son?" Teresa was Michael's oldest sister, separated by eight years, a brother named Vincent, and a sister named Penny. Tony was twenty-one, which meant Teresa was only sixteen when she gave birth to him. And Lawrence Allensworth would have been…old enough and married enough to know better. Anger failed her, but nausea clenched at her stomach.

Michael nodded. "I only found out myself when I was twelve. It must have been quite an undertaking keeping it a secret at the time. I certainly don't remember anything out of the ordinary about that time."

"Oh, I don't know about that," Della disagreed dryly. "A lot of people managed to keep a plethora of secrets from me without much trouble. Does Tony know?"

"He says he's always known. He doesn't care. He's quite a kid." Michael shifted in the chair. "Speaking of secrets, I know about your real name. For the record, you are definitely a Della and not a Maeve."

A tiny bit of anger surfaced and she was secretly pleased to actually feel something other than numbly apathetic. "Bastard."

He held up his hands in defense. "Miranda told me only a little while ago."

Her anger evaporated and all she felt again was slight nausea. It might be the heat. Or the thought of Lawrence Allensworth and Teresa Domenico…but most likely it was the man-sized pour of bourbon she'd swigged right before wandering out into the back yard. She wasn't quite certain. "What else did Miss Allensworth tell you?"

"She told me Grandmother Katherine left you everything, that she changed your name, and that you know about Tony. That's all."

"That's all? My oldest friend kept secrets for twenty-five years but suddenly she can't shut up. And you! How could you not tell me about Tony considering how close he was to Danny?" She hoped Michael was telling the truth and that Miranda hadn't told him about her mother's startling revelation. Pity from Michael was the last thing she wanted.

Michael leaned back in the chair and the metal swayed beneath his weight. "The best thing you ever did was leave," he said unexpectedly instead of answering her directly.

"Yes," she agreed a bit listlessly, gazing past him toward her grandmother's flower garden. The gladiola were nearly in full bloom. She must have planted early this spring.

"He's not what I expected."

"He's not what I expected, either."

"I think I'm getting married."

Della snapped her eyes back to his. "What?"

Michael leaned forward again, placing his elbows on his knees and clasping his hands beneath his chin. "Amy and I…we – we've been seeing each other again since she came back from California. Her family travelled to England with my family and she came back early with me when we heard about Grandmother Katherine."

"Oh." That was something else the loquacious-of-late Miss Allensworth had failed to tell her.

Michael lowered his eyes to the ground. "I know what I did – what Amy and I did – hurt you, Del. I listened when all the wrong people gave me all the wrong advice. You were spirited and gregarious and you wanted more than I could give. You made me mad and I got stupid."

"We were very young," Della said very quietly.

Michael shook his head. "Don't offer any excuses for me, Della. I don't deserve to be excused. And you didn't deserve to be treated that way…but it was what I knew, what I had seen my father do to my mother, what I knew Lawrence Allensworth did to his wife, and what Garrett Kirby did to your aunt. I'll regret it for the rest of my life."

Della flashed a weakly wicked smile. "Is marrying Amy a form of self-flagellation?"

Michael regarded her seriously, his blue eyes steady and clear. "Possibly."

Della impulsively flung her arms around him, those blasted tears threatening again. "Oh Michael, one mistake saved us from a miserable life. Don't make another mistake trying to correct the first mistake that really doesn't need to be corrected."

Michael unclasped his hands and hugged her to him, sliding forward in the chair. "I know you're happy with him, Del. In all honesty, I believe I can be happy with Amy. We deserve each other."

"Marry her because you love her," Della chided gently.

"I do. We'll be okay. I certainly won't cheat again." He rubbed her back. He did love Amy, but it was a love that had known a different love before it, a love unfulfilled, and therefore lacked what it was about Della that set his heart racing whenever he saw her. "Would you come to our wedding if we invite you? You can bring that big lug attorney of yours."

Della rubbed her nose on Michael's shirt and he held her away from him with a stern glower. She ran her hand beneath her nose to finish the job. "Michael, once I figure out what I'm going to do with everything Grandmother dumped on me, Perry and I are going away. And we're never coming back."

"Do you hate it here that much?"

"It's not a healthy place for me. I lose sight of who I am and what's important when I'm here. Perry is about ready to strangle me."

"I find that highly unlikely. The way he looks at you makes me blush. As a matter of fact, he's been standing in the doorway of the porch watching us for the past couple of minutes. Don't turn around!" Michael planted a kiss on her forehead and stood. "Good-bye, Del. Amy is waiting for me."

"I like you, Michael. Be happy."

"I like you, Del. You will forever be the one that got away."

Michael patted her shoulder and then headed back toward the porch, where Perry Mason indeed was leaning against the door jamb, the screen door propped open with his foot, arms crossed over his chest.

"She's all yours," Michael announced, stopping at the base of the stairs.

Perry stepped aside and held the door open so the stocky man could pass through. "There was never a doubt."

"Then why have you been standing here watching us? I won't threaten you because I suspect you could wipe the floor with me with relative ease, so I'll merely advise you to take care of her."

"If she'll let me."

Michael Domenico burst into laughter. "Her independence – that's pure Katherine Street. I see a lot of her grandmother in Della. And this is a threat: don't you ever tell her I said that." With a cocky salute, he moved past Perry and disappeared into the house.